


The Shapes a Bright Container can Contain

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Aging, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, fic import, pretentious poetry references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>     Inspired by Roethke’s <a href="http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/122.html"><em>I knew a woman</em></a>, because there are times when you feel old and the people you love are how and when you feel young again.  Many, many thanks to <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/"><b>sangueuk</b></a>  for her thoughts and concrit.  Thanks, too, to whomever in the <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://pinecity.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://pinecity.livejournal.com/"></a><b>pinecity</b>  ship/comm first coined the evil nickname Karly-bear.  I couldn't resist using it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shapes a Bright Container can Contain

Title:  The Shapes a Bright Container can Contain  
Author:  blcwriter  
Words: 7342.  Ish.  
Pairing/Rating/Warnings:  Chris/Karl, NC-17 for m/m oral sex.  Also, grumpiness, inspiration by poetry, schmoop.  
Summary:     Inspired by Roethke’s [_I knew a woman_](http://gawow.com/roethke/poems/122.html), because there are times when you feel old and the people you love are how and when you feel young again.  Many, many thanks to [](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/profile)[**sangueuk**](http://sangueuk.livejournal.com/)   for her thoughts and concrit.  Thanks, too, to whomever in the [](http://pinecity.livejournal.com/profile)[**pinecity**](http://pinecity.livejournal.com/)   ship/comm first coined the evil nickname Karly-bear.  I couldn't resist using it here.

ETA:  The amazing [](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/profile)[**thalialunacy**](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/)  has recorded a hypnotic and gorgeous podfic for this story.  The links can be found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/pinecity/56428.html?view=784748#t784748).  Seriously, I would listen to this woman read cereal boxes, she's that amazing.  Karl's voice is just ... well, go hear for yourself.  


 

\--

  
After the divorce, the second movie being shot in the hot fucking jungle in goddamned Brazil, all those damned action stunts and then hurting his back—he’s getting so old—all that Karl Urban charm his co-stars chirp about to the paps feels like it’s gone, blasted to smithereens by the photon torpedoes fired in the penultimate scene.

He doesn’t feel charming or funny or sweet.  He feels like snarling and snapping, doesn’t feel like smiling ever again—but he does.  It’s his job.  If he notices that the rotation of seatmates on the press tour has changed up and he’s sitting with Chris more, less so with John or with Anton—well, he’s mired in grief and mostly he’s glad.  Chris knows not to ask personal questions and brings Karl his coffee just the way that he likes.  Nat never got that right, as if that wasn’t a sign.

Death of his marriage, death of his youth, death of the unblemished brown of his hair, and _Christ_ he’s a vain sonofabitch.  He never minded the faint lines in his forehead, at the sides of his eyes, but those silver hairs in the mirror this morning, this week, this last month on the tour, the ache in his shoulder and back and now he’s got a new movie commitment with action, swordfights and horses, for fuck’s sake.  He doesn’t look grey and charming like Clooney.  He just looks fucking ancient.

Plus, how on Earth is he going to get back his overhand swing with his back all bunged up like this?

Lord knows how his co-stars put up with him, day after day-- but they do, and now Chris is patting his shoulder to get his attention.  He’s maundering again.

“C’mon, man, let’s go get a drink.  Long day, hunh?”

His eyebrows—caterpillar if the word means a damned thing, and screw Quinto because Chris hasn’t let a pair of tweezers near his face in his life—are doing the concerned sympathy thing.  It’s a look Karl’s gotten used to even if it’s one he doesn’t much like-- but the idea of going back to his room and drinking alone isn’t one he likes either.

“They’re all long,” he grouses, but he heaves himself out of his chair and follows his friend, watching as Chris makes his way to the lift.

Chris’s put on some bulk for the movie—this one was more planet-based, lots of action for Kirk, Bones and Spock—and his muscles ripple under the sweater he wore for the interview, his shoulder blades rolling as he shrugs his shoulders, canting his head back and forth to work out some of the kinks from sitting and answering the same questions all day.  All week. 

Whatever.

Karl isn’t the only one who’s tired—Chris’ skin is a little bit dry and that smiling mouth is taut, compressed now that there aren’t any cameras.  Too many hotels, too many planes, not enough salad, too many steaks.  He is getting old if he’s wishing for fiber.

“Hotel life,” he says tersely, because interviews always leave him subverbal, at least until he’s got a drink or three under his belt, and Chris snorts and looks at him sideways.

“Fucking glamorous, right?”

The lift dings and opens.  Karl nods, then shoves Chris in by the back of the neck, because roughhousing is what the two of them do, a substitute for the cuddling manly men in Hollywood simply don’t do when they need TLC.

Karl’s got a roster of manly men movies, with two more coming up.  He _really_ needs a new physical therapist.  The one they had on the Paramount set didn’t do shit.

“In you go, glamour boy.”

Chris turns with the ease of someone who’s used to doing most of his stunts now-- he grabs Karl by the arm, yanking him in with a grunt and a grin.

“Fuck you.”  Chris’ blue eyes twinkle like stars—always do—as he says it and sticks out his pink, pink velvet tongue.  His stupid smile is as white as always.  Bastard.

“You wish,” Karl says, pulling Chris into a headlock and giving the younger man a hard noogie.

He ignores the twinge in his back and his shoulder as well as the fact that yes—he really does wish.

\--

  
They play pool in a scut bar on the wrong side of town, and it’s just right, just what Karl needed.  How Chris knew this was here is something he’ll ask about later.  The long shots are good for his back, the stretch of the cue over the table making him loosen up more than a bit—that and the booze.  Alcohol, nature's original muscle relaxant.

Bruce joins them after a bit—just the three of them, the rest of the cast off doing their drinking too-expensive martinis and dancing to disco-thump thing.  It’s been like this more and more recently, as if Chris knows the rest of the young cast makes Karl tetchy, all their end-of-the-day manic overtired energy making him more angry and sad than he already is.

Chris though—he’s calm in Karl’s storm.  His humor is sly, snarky, sometimes just goofy.  He’s always welcome as he slings himself into a chair next to or across the table from Karl, slouching in whatever designer suit he’s got on loan or whatever sweater he’s hauled out of his closet. 

Tonight, it’s the same sweater he had on during the interview, one of a rotation of grey and blue v-necks and cardigans Chris jams over collared shirts day after day in a haphazard fashion that Karl can’t help but love, especially because it makes Quinto bitch.  The kid’s lack of vanity is pretty endearing, and the sweater’s got a stain on the sleeve from the latte Karl sloshed last Monday during some show they’d done in Berlin.  The latte and Chris’ mock-pout at being “burned” had been the best part—the interview was just more of the same.

They shoot the shit, shoot some pool, drink some very good whiskey because if Karl’s getting old, at least he can afford to drink the good stuff.  His two friends walk him back to the hotel and dump him into his bed when he finds that his feet don’t work as they should.  When he says so out loud, Chris just chuckles while Bruce rumbles low in his chest.  The vibration of it kind of feels like a hug, stretched out as he is with his arms hauled over their shoulders.  It’s pretty pathetic, that he has to get wasted to get this much interpersonal contact, and that from two very male co-stars.

He blinks when he sees that the time on the alarm at the side of the bed says it’s not even eleven.   Somehow, he’s already sprawled on the bed, divested of boots and belt, wallet and phone.  He didn’t even notice that someone undressed him, he’s been so wrapped up in his head.

The whole light mood of the evening is suddenly gone.

“Christ,” he croaks out. “I’m so fucking old.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything.  When he struggles up to his elbows he sees that it’s because he’s already gone.  Probably already on the phone with his wife.  Sonofabitch.

Chris, who’s dumping aspirin or something out of Karl’s kit, just gives Karl a calm look over his shoulder, inscrutable given how drunk Karl’s feeling right now.  Not that Chris isn’t usually mysterious in his own kind of way—he’s not one for saying what he personally thinks.  He’s more of a listener-- a damned good one, too.

“Nah.  You’re not old.  Just having a rough patch.  It happens to all of us.”

“Not you,” Karl says, because he thinks that it’s true, watching his young friend, the one who’s handled his rise to superfuckingstardom with such goddamned aplomb.  Aplomb-- there’s a Chris word for the ages. 

Interviewing with the man has made Karl’s vocabulary better, not to mention made him feel smarter.  He can’t really say no to the puppy dog eyes when Chris tries to lend him the books he’s done reading, given all these plane rides and car trips and in-between-shots galore.  Karl knows more about economics and poets and lady short story writers and all sorts of shit he’d never thought much about-- he used to go back to his room and turn on the TV, watch the news, catch an old movie or three.  He was never a dummy-- he always kept up with the papers, read more than a few books a year, but this is a different level of things.

Chris laughs, soft and rough from the cigarettes JJ would kill them for smoking if he could catch them.  “Bullshit.  You just weren’t paying attention,” Chris chuckles on through the response, and his smile’s as mysterious as the unsmiling look he'd had just moments before.  He snaps the cap back on the pills, then there’s the plastic snick of a zipper as Chris saunters back toward the bed, a bottle of Vitamin Water in hand.

“Aspirin, multivitamin, Vitamin Water,” Chris says, pills in his palm.  “Drink up, Karly-bear.”

Karl grunts at the nickname—Anton’s fault, but Chris loves how ridiculous it is and won’t let it go.  He fumbles the water and drinks before accepting the pills.

“Don’t call me Karly-bear, Christine.”

Chris snorts, eyebrows a-waggle as Karl downs the pills.  He watches and waits until Karl drinks all of the water and flops back onto the bed.

“Fuck my life.”  It’s announced to the ceiling—the dark ceiling, because Chris shuts off the light by the side of the bed, as if to say it’s Karl’s bedtime and Chris is close to overstaying his welcome. 

Bullshit.

“I’ll work on that.  You want a redhead or a brunette?”  He doesn’t ask Karl if he wants a blonde—Natalie was a blonde.  Nat’s new wife is a blonde.  Fucking ironic, all the time Karl spent not cheating.

Karl just grunts, because he wants neither.

“Fine.” Because Chris gets Karl’s non-response.  “Zoe’s Crème de la Mer for Dorian Gray in the morning it is.”

“Fuck you, Chris,” he says, and if his voice is a little bit choked, he’s going to chalk it up to the sugar in the Vitamin Water.  Sugar and electrolyte drinks makes him all phlegmy.  It’s why he drinks diet.

“I love you too, Karl,” Chris says, his tone light.  “Don’t let the bed tribbles bite.”  The little bastard leans in, kisses his forehead and leaves, the door snicking behind him. 

Karl rolls over enough to land a good punch on his pillow.  He falls asleep anyway.

\--

  
They have lunch or supper sometimes.  They also go out for drinks or play pool—guy friend-ish stuff.  Sometimes they play video games.  Chris goes to all the new plays that come through L.A.—sometimes, Karl tags along, though theater never used to be his thing, really. 

With some trepidation, he invites Chris to a photography show Viggo’s hosting, his press putting out a new book.  He’s not worried Chris won’t enjoy it, the kid went to Berkeley, he’s more arty than Karl’ll ever be for all his patronage of the Chris Pine library—but he’s always kept his friendships from all his movies separate. 

But-- he thinks Chris will like Viggo and vice versa, and of course they get on like two peas in a pod.  The two of them nerd out over Noam Fucking Chomsky-- Karl decides he’d better go raid the bar. All the hyphenate phrases like military-industrial complex are a little much for a Friday-- and since it’s an event Viggo’s hosting, of course the food’s all raw and vegan.  At least there’s plenty of booze.

Viggo later tells him that he likes Chris a good deal, some weird look on his face, before he changes the subject to the next crazy method-type film he’s got coming up-- and that’s that, though the three of them do some of the outdoorsy shit he’s always just done with Viggo.  It’s nice, in a surreal kind of way—he kind of wonders if Chris is going to bust out with the Elvish the next time they go rock-climbing or hiking, he fits in with Viggo so well, but it doesn’t happen.

They talk on the phone a few times a week and Chris tells him what the others are up to, though Karl sometimes does things with John and they’re all on the email round-robin.  Mostly they hang, laughing and shooting the shit, and it’s the kind of calm, friendly stuff that Karl needs. 

It’s nothing intense, ever-- just hanging out with someone who never asks for more than Karl’s willing to give.  Chris has Zach for that hipster Hollywood clubbing hyperactive shit Karl's never liked, not that the paps snap Chris at the clubs as often as Zoe and Zach, disco queens that they are.  And Chris has a succession of pretty girl friends to take out to dinner and fuck, not that he talks about it or that Karl asks.  Chris has a filthy mouth when he’s joking around, but no one would say he’s not a gentleman—and Karl knows how much his friend hates the paps.  Besides-- it’s bad manners to bring up a girl Karl only knows about because she was on Entertainment Tonight.

They go on, circling each other, a comfortable rhythm, until one day when Chris comes to the set to pick him up for dinner.  It's a day when he can’t get the fight choreography right and he’s knocked the poor stunt bastard down on his ass six fucking times and Karl's ready to punch someone or cry.

It’s really a toss up.

“Hey.”

Karl’s been standing there, glaring at his damned prop sword and contemplating just one more try because he’s at the point where he feels like if he can’t get this one scene right, just this one scene, now, today, the whole movie will tank-- Chris’ voice rasps behind him.

He whips around, prop sword in hand.  He’s been mock fighting for hours and alone on the sound-stage for two.  There's a security guard outside, of course, but Karl's been in a bear of a mood, and no one would want to disturb him, so his temper's on edge and he's more than a little surprised.  He'd outright forgotten that Chris was coming, and doesn't want to think about what warning Chris might have gotten about what mood he was in.

“Watch it, Karly-bear,” Chris says, eyebrows a-waggle.  “Someone might think you were happy to see me.”

It’s so ridiculous, Karl bursts out laughing, but it’s the sad, tired kind, and Chris gets it because-- well, Chris always gets it.  It's like when he shows up with In-and-Out burgers when Karl says he’s knackered and doesn’t want to go out.  Chris never forgets extra fries and two chocolate shakes, because Karl loves those chocolate shakes.

“Bad day,” Chris asks, his face shifting, and it’s not a question he expects Karl to answer.  He does anyway.

Fucking Nat sent him pictures of her with the wife and the kids because they’re trying to be civil and nice and Jesus fuck, it was not what he needed.  The kids looking happy was one thing—the look between Nat and her wife—those smiles, being needed, all of that shit—that was another.  Now he can’t get this fight right and maybe the critics are right.  There are days when Karl can’t act his way out of a wet paper bag, but he’s always been able to get the fight scenes just right.

“If I could just nail this dumb choreography,” he says, the long sword chopping the air next to his leg in frustration.

Chris nods, licking his lips—that damnable mouth—and tugs down the zipper on the hoodie he wears, tossing it on one of the cluster of folding chairs sitting around near where Karl's working and unloading his keys and the rest of his things from his track pants.

He’s wearing one of his omnipresent white t-shirts, an old one that clings like he’s just had a shower, and now Karl notes that the kid’s hair is damp, he’s got on trainers and has one of the notebooks he always carries around when he’s working a film and remembers—Chris had been starting the next of those Jack Ryans and must’ve been on set himself most of the day.

“So.  Don’t try it, teach it,” Chris calls, moving torward the equipment racks for one of the prop swords.  Most of the stage's empty, except for the corner laid out with mats where the stunt guys and Karl have been working.  There's some equipment around, tables with water and fruit and energy bars, but mostly the place is dark, full of cavernous echoes and dust-- kind of like Karl's life right about now.

Chris finds one and bends to pick it up for himself, the long lines of his legs stretching and flexing.  Karl looks away.

It’s something they did together on _Trek_ —when they kept missing the parts of a sequence, they’d teach it instead.  The shift in perspective usually worked, and Karl can’t believe he’s forgotten—but out of sight, out of mind, just like the bunch of Chris’ muscles under his shirt and that damned smile of his, the echoing lines of his eyes.  Though that’s really bullshit.  Karl has no trouble recalling anything about Chris.

“No, Chris, it’s fine,” he says, “you had that big explosion and car chase, didn’t you?”  No wonder the kid looks a bit beat.

Chris shrugs.  “We got it in three.  Not a big deal. And they let me out early.  It’s not even five.  We’ve got time.  Come on.”

He’s got the sword in his hand, facing Karl.  The weapon sits loose in his palm, just as it should.  It’d have to, after that gladiator movie he did, and Jesus, the box office on that, not that he didn’t deserve it.  He still thinks Chris was robbed of the Oscar. 

He stands there, assessing how this is going to go.  Chris hasn’t put on any more weight since the second _Trek_ movie, he’s always going to be leaner than Karl, but the kid is rock-solid, defined.   He moves free and easy, though he’s still learning his way with stunts an old hand like Karl mostly has under his belt.  Except for today.  Today, Chris looks fucking bright and fresh as a daisy, at least next to Karl.  He still looks a bit tired.  The crinkles at the sides of his eyes seem deeper than normal.  His friend’s not a fan of the pyrotechnical scenes.

Karl sighs, ignoring the fact that it sounds tired and wet.

“No.  You’re always doing shit for me when I’m feeling messy, and you’re knackered and this can wait ‘til tomorrow.  You don’t need to cozen an old fuckup like me all the time.”

Chris’ brow furrows a bit, his mouth turning down.  He tightens his grip on the sword.  “Do you remember that time those paparazzi staked out my house after the first movie and went through my garbage and I completely freaked out?”

Karl shrugs—he’d brought pizza and beer, they’d played Grand Theft Auto and smoked some weed he’d gotten through Anton, and then when he’d got Chris good and stoned, he'd tucked the kid into bed and slept on the couch until he was sober enough to drive home.  No biggie.  It happened.

Chris snorts at Karl’s nonchalance.  “And the shit reviews _Carriers_ got?”

Karl had cut out the reviews and written “Wankers” all over before scanning them into an email to Chris.  He’d been in the midst of packing his things in New Zealand, but that was just friendship, you made time for that kind of shit.

“Exactly,” Chris says, and if Karl’s said it aloud, he doesn’t suppose that it matters, because Chris is hefting his sword, balancing up on his toes as he readies himself, bright-eyed and watching Karl keenly, ready for whatever Karl might throw at him.

“ _En garde_ , Karly-bear.”

He sticks out his tongue for good measure.

Karl gets himself in position and gets ready.  _Karly-bear_.  He’ll teach the brat.

\--

  
“No—Turn, here,” he says, one hand on Chris’ elbow, pushing him left, and then on the four-beat, pushes him right, “and now counter-turn, stand,” and Chris chuckles under his breath even as he follows the movements, each thrust and parry in time with each step and turn, the curve and twirl of the fight like a dance with Karl’s hands on his shoulders or elbows or hips as the choreography warrants.

Chris’ muscles ripple and bunch under his as-ever white skin—the kid just doesn’t tan unless it’s a spray.  Hollywood's golden boy, Karl's favorite irony.  His movements are fluid as he takes Karl’s direction, letting Karl push and pull in any and every direction. 

He’s breathing in time with the steps and the strokes of the sword—if Chris isn't a complete jock, he still works hard at taking care of his body, and in only four runs through of the steps, Chris has the sequence.  He's quick, light and loose as his sword flashes in time with the count Karl’s narrating aloud, one hand on Chris’ hip and one hand on his shoulder less for guidance and more because—well, he has a hard time letting go.

It took him two weeks just to open the envelope with the papers for the divorce, even though he told Nat he’d sign.

“You got it, kid,” he says, when Chris comes to a stop, a slight quiver of muscle at the top of his leg under Karl’s hand, and he slowly removes it, aware this is intimate in a way that’s only alright to ignore when it’s stuntwork.  That's when it’s okay to touch.

Chris tips his head halfway around, grinning at Karl, utterly pleased with himself-- as he should be.  All his work’s been with shortswords, not the long blades.  The first time Karl worked with these, he nearly skewered himself. 

“Good.  Now you.”

Karl can’t help grinning back.  Chris is infectious.  As he steps to the side and picks up the count, Karl tries it all over again and fuck, what a relief.  He can hear himself laughing even as he works through the _turn/ sweep/ counterturn/ thrust/step/ parry/ stand_ , because it’s always easy when Chris is around. 

The smell of Chris’ sweat, like hay, grass and leaves, is strong in his nose as the prop sword swings with ease through the air, the blade humming.  It comes to rest, tip on the ground, the pommel under the heel of Karl’s hand, because it’s Karl’s prop sword and cut for his height. 

The long blade holds steady, well-balanced, the length still thrumming a bit from all the use to which it's been put.

“Nice,” Chris says, smiling eyes crinkling at a level with his.  His posture is easy and loose as he grins, pleased that Karl's gotten it down, and Karl smiles more broadly, taking him in.

His friend wears his exercise clothes loose enough that Karl, broader and with that bit more of bulk, can still wear something clean if he crashes with Chris after too many beers.  Chris’ old sweats and t-shirts don’t have to stretch too much to make room for Karl, though they never smell as nice after Karl’s washed them back at his place.

The ones he's wearing right now, in fact, are ones Karl's worn before.  If he thinks on it-- and this is maybe the first time he has-- he could pretty much inventory of Chris' closet, he knows it so well.

And he's still grinning at Chris, who's looking right back.  His smile doesn't seem to change, but all of a sudden it's no longer easy.  Karl's doesn't know why he notices now, except that he's been watching Chris for a while, mooning over his own lost youth and feeling envious of Chris' star on the rise even as he's known how fucking lucky he is to have the kid-- man-- as his friend.

Something about Nat's picture today left him wishing Chris would show up even as he'd forgotten their plans.  He'd just felt himself stupidly wishing for all that cheer and capacity Chris could contain to appear and make everything better.  That he had, and that Karl had in fact been happy to see him-- he's been off balance a while and something today, maybe just practicing _turn/ counter-turn/ stand_ with Chris as they went through the motions-- they're suddenly doing anything but. 

It hurts, being _present_ all of a sudden, like ripping a scab off of new skin.  He's had an interest beyond friendship in Chris for a while-- unresolved-- unacted-upon.  And lord knows he's suppressed most of his sexual desire for Chris-- except sometimes at night-- convinced that he's being pathetic.

Chris just clouts Karl on the shoulder, squeezing once before letting go.  There's something off in his expression.  Karl has always smiled back when Chris grins because even an inveterate grouch can’t help but smile at Chris, but Chris isn't one much to falter.  Then again, Karl's mostly been wrapped up in his own shit for-- well, a while.  It's not like he's been really paying attention.

Regardless-- and Karl's watching now-- Chris drops his hand, breaks eye contact, makes to go rack the sword, turning his body away.  His shoulders are set and his posture’s a little bit tense.  He moves like he’s sore, like a guy who’s got an unexpected bit of a workout and isn’t wearing a cup.  Or has a bit of a hard-on.

Oh.

Boy, is he a dumb, self-absorbed bastard.

“Chris?” he says, and damn, but his voice sounds a little bit shaky.

As he turns around at Karl’s call—Chris always comes when Karl calls and _boy_ , he’s a dumbfuck. Chris joked during the _press tour_ of the first movie about having a man-crush.

Chris is wearing his calm mask, and now that Karl knows what that expression means.  His smile is expectant, like he’s about to ask if Karl wants burgers or sushi.   How many times has he seen that look, over the years? It’s nothing like that look Nat’s wife is giving her in that photo he got in the email—and yet, it totally is.

It's that look of "Yes, dear," the one he used to get when he'd call Nat's name to ask if she was up for dinner in town, a look of expectation and interest and compromise and all of the shit that goes into being a grown-up who cares about someone besides themself.  None of this is anything Karl's been paying any attention to, wallowing in his misery as he has been and thinking that his interest's one-sided.  But Chris has always been game, even if it's taken Karl this long to wake up.  It's the same look he'd been longing for someone to give him, back when he'd felt like calling Chris before closing the photo, just because he'd needed someone to talk to.

No-- he's a thick, stupid bastard.

“I am happy to see you,” Karl says, hoping Chris gets it. “Always am.  Even if I don’t always say so.  Or know that I am, at the moment.”

Chris’ right eye twitches a little, but his face doesn’t otherwise move— his hand, though, still on the sword, tightens until his knuckles are white.  His long, blunt-tipped fingers show all the tension he’s shunted away from his facial expression.

Chris bites his nails, and the skin around the nail beds show white, he’s gripping the handle so hard.  It’s something, the biting—like the smoking—his agent hasn’t broken him of, and Karl’s sometimes wondered.  What besides Chris’ oral fixation drives the kid to such bad habits?

He’s always thought the kid to be the calmest guy in the world.

Yeah, Karl’s really an asshole.

He takes a step forward—then one more, closing the distance.  He tugs the prop sword out of Chris’ hand and puts his own fingers in place of a leather-wrapped handle.  He pulls Chris’ hand up, turns it over, regards the back of his hand and slightly scarred knuckles.

The sword hits the floor with a clatter and thunk, but Chris doesn’t move—doesn’t blink—doesn’t breathe—just looks back at Karl as Karl steps into his space and feels the heat of his body, slightly damp from their efforts.

Four years-- give or take various girlfriends, getting to know one another, a divorce and a clue-- they’ve been playing Halo and Grand Theft Auto and drinking and talking about books when they could have been fucking.  Not that he doesn’t enjoy his conversations with Chris. 

“I’m a bit thick, Chris,” he says next.  “You’re going to have to forgive me.”

Chris’ eyes widen, but he spits out an answer.  “I can manage that.” With a sweet smile and that special jackassery that got him the Kirk role in the first place, he licks his lips and says “I've always had a thing for thick men.”

There are a thousand double entendres Karl could make in this moment, but the fact remains that Chris Pine is sweaty and hot because he’s been letting Karl put him through moves Karl couldn’t figure out on his own—and there’s a fucking metaphor if ever there was, their whole relationship's worth in the last half hour or so.  There’s no one around and Karl’s long overdue to kiss the hell out of the self-denying sonofabitch. 

He’ll yell at him about whether he thought Karl was straight or faithful or whatever later—right now, there are more important things to attend to, namely that ridiculous mouth meant for kissing-- and more.

Chris meets him partway, their lips mashing together, and the kiss is somehow ferocious-- tender-- devoid of finesse and fucking spectacular.  Karl’s never been any kind of poet, not like all that shit Chris makes him read and that he likes and tracks down to read more of on his own-- not that Chris makes him do anything.  He just offers and Karl takes.  Always takes. 

The obscene noises of smacking and slurping and grunting and the feel of Chris’ stubble under his fingers and the taste of diet coke and cinnamon gum overwhelm until he pushes away, hating that he's stopping to breathe but doing it all the same.  

Chris kind of looks like he’s been smacked in the head with a board. It’s a good look on him.  That, and the look of the hard-on tenting his pants when Karl pauses to look.  Chris' shortsword is definitely happy to see Karl, and Karl, totally flattered, reaches out and takes hold at the root, pulling up slowly and smoothly.  Chris' eyes' flutter shut as he grits his teeth over a small, inchoate noise.

“Kind of been wanting to do that,” Karl says, and Chris turns bright red, which is just perfect.  He's finally found something to make Chris Pine blush.  The number of dirty jokes in the kid’s repertoire…

“I kind of hate you right now,” Chris mutters, eyes closed.  The blush creeps down his face to his neck, and Karl laughs, unable to stop.  He’s suddenly giddy, fucking lightheaded.  “I’ve been trying to be a good friend, you know,” Chris says, looking down and away as Karl starts kissing the side of his jaw.  Chris' voice turns increasingly husky and more than a little defensive.  “Good friends do not mack on their divorced, totally heterosexual co-stars.  And trust me, I plumbed the rumor mill for all it was worth, to see if you might accept a little comfort of the Chris Pine variety.  I even asked _Viggo_ , which is an embarrassment I’m not sure I’ll ever get over.  He told me he was pretty sure you were straight.”

“You’re a very good friend,” Karl says, crowding Chris’ space.  He backs him right into the corner conveniently placed not too far away.  The set yawns behind, dark and dusty, caverned with shadows, their small corner the only bit of activity in all of the world-- or at least that's how it seems.  No noise from outside wends inside.

“Very good,” he repeats, nuzzling at the space under Chris’ ear, the one that’s caught his attention multiple times.  He’s wondered if the skin there is soft, like it is on a woman.  It is, though it’s a different kind of silken resilience—Chris hisses when he tugs there with his teeth.

“Patient, too,” he mutters into the well of Chris’ collarbone, the dip exposed as Karl tugs the v-neck away to scoop his tongue into the hollow of muscle and bone, taste the skin overlaid with the salt of Chris’ sweat.  “And we know good things come to good boys who wait.”

Chris' hands are more tentative than maybe Karl thought they would be, given the raunch in the kid's level of flirt.  He's got one hand clawing Karl's shirt at the hip, the other braced on the wall-- it's like he doesn't know if he needs to hang on or push away, hasn't yet made a decision.

Tough shit.

Karl has.

He may be slow on the uptake, but he's not one to change his mind once he's figured things out.  He could ask why, rehearse all the reasons (before now) why he hasn't been worthy, all of that stuff.  He's not going to.  Not with that look of _want_ on Chris' face, when the kid never asks for a damned thing.  In any event, Karl's sure he wants to give.

He tastes the other side of Chris' neck, too, licks one swipe over Chris’ Adam’s apple, then goes for broke.  If he’s going to get caught making out with a man on a set, it might as well be this one.  Not like there aren’t fangirls all over the world who wouldn’t love for the two of them to get it on in real life-- he might as well give the fans what they want.  Karl’s generous like that. 

Chris grunts, his “unh” muted when Karl elbows him back into the corner, forearm braced over Chris’ stomach to keep him in place as he uses his other to yank at Chris’ pants and get a look at that cock he’d been teasing just a moment ago.

Chris is as pale here as everywhere else, his scant dusting of hair the same dirty-blond as everywhere else, though his cock’s bobbing and the pearly drop at the tip is a smeared contrast to the deepening red color he’s turning as Karl takes him in hand and considers his options.

Kneeling quickly, ignoring the creak and velcro sounds of worn cartilage, he slowly licks his way up the underside of Chris’ cock—the kid has personal knowledge of the concept of thick, Karl thinks to himself, snorting in amusement even as Chris makes this weird garbled noise prefatory to a more articulate “Karl … set … ngrrrph … people…”

He slows and gives a few contemplative laps when he reaches the smooth, circumcised crown.  He's had plenty of blowjobs but it’s been a long time since he’s been on the giving end.  He feels sort of bad for poor Chris, but a bad blowjob is still better than no blowjob at all.  This is a truth no man will contest.  And Karl—well, he and Chris have been friends for years, and Chris has clearly developed a deep well of patience.  He’s pretty sure Chris will let him practice his skills.

When he looks up from where he’s contemplating the moles dotting Chris’ stomach and hip, not to mention Chris' flushed, heavy penis, it’s clear Chris’ protest isn’t _pro forma_ —he’s even redder and clearly embarrassed.  Hah.  The kid apparently doesn’t have an exhibitionist kink.

At the same time, though, Chris’ cock clearly wants nothing more than what Karl has already started to do, and the _needlonginglust_ in Chris face is so plain that Karl’s sure all over again that Chris is Oscar material, because Karl’s usually not this fucking dumb about people being interested in him.  After all, before this whole mess with Nat, he used to turn down people on a regular basis.  Including Viggo, which would be why he'd told Chris he thought Karl was straight.

A wicked smile works its way out of some disused part of his soul, and Chris’ eyes widen as Karl chuckles.  “No worries, kid.  I’m the star, someone catches me blowing someone they’ll just hush it up all nice and quiet.  They’ve already filmed too many scenes to replace me at this point in the movie.”

Chris makes this shuddering breathy-type noise when Karl licks his way again over the head of his cock, and that’s it for small talk.  It's all to the good because Karl’s never been much of a talker in bed, aside from the obvious.  He circles the crown with his tongue cautiously, tasting the salt tang of Chris’ precum before rolling his eyes at himself.  He’s being ridiculous.

A cock is a cock is a cock, and Karl knows what he likes-- certainly his own cock is hard and demanding attention.  Chris can’t be that different.  He swallows him down as well as he’s able, circling his hand and the base and bracing one hand on the wall to give himself that small bit of leverage he figures he’ll need.  Speed, bobbing, all that rhythmical shit.

Chris makes a noise that doesn't have any vowels, though it’s a grateful and helpless for sure.  Karl sets to sucking.

It’s sloppy, he’s sure, and he loses the rhythm and suction two or three times, but Chris does not seem to mind—he’s slapping his hands on the wall, breathy groaned “Karls” and “fucks” and “ngggfls” and “anngggghhhs” making their way out of his throat as Karl tries to remember the best parts of the various blowjobs he’s had over the years. 

There was Benji in their first year of college, how he used to bob down and rub his tongue over the underside of Karl's cock as he sucked, and then there was the way his first girlfriend scraped her teeth over his shaft on the upstroke while suctioning gently.  And Nat-- Nat used to let her cheeks and the back of her throat go all loose while she made her lips so very tight, the hard ring sliding harder and faster and harder until he just couldn’t— “Karl… ngh… gonna…” is all the warning he gets, and suddenly the spit or swallow debate is merely rhetorical because Chris’ hard, gorgeous cock is most of the way down his throat and it’s swallow or choke because his jaw’s a little too sore and he’s a little drunk on Chris’ musky smell up so close to think _oh, right, here’s where I pull off and spit_.

He swallows.  He always thought it was hot when his partners did it for him, after all.

One hand braced on Chris’ pale, shaky hip, he pushes off and away, settling back onto his haunches as he looks up.  Absently, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Chris wheezes, looking like he's been punched as he sinks, sweaty and bare-assed to the floor.  His legs fold like Karl’s sucked the bones out of his body.  He’s completely debauched, his track pants and boxers bunched at his knees, bright spots of pink burned into his cheeks, his eyes practically glowing.  He looks fanfuckingtastic.

Karl's cock aches with want.  Lots of want.  His balls could climb out of his throat right about now.

“Oh,” Chris finally says, licking his lips.  He sounds like he might need to be carried.

“Gonna live?” Karl finally says.  His lips tingle and fuck knows what he looks like right now-- the insides of his cheeks hurt and one of the salivary glands is hard and throbbing a little, sort of spurting unevenly.  Leaning onto his hands and crawling forward on all fours, he braces himself over the length of Chris’ body, which is mostly collapsed into the floor and the wall.  Karl’s leaning so close their breath mingles, and the smell of Chris’ cum on his breath makes its way back into his nose.  It smells a bit like salt hay.  Karl's cock throbs again.

Chris opens his mouth to say something, but no sound makes its way out.  Given that the kid's not one much lost for words, even when he's in listening mode, Karl's feeling a little bit proud of himself.  Ready to explode if Chris so much as breathes, but that's almost beside the point.  Blushing, then clearing his throat, Chris says “I certainly hope so,” the usual slight husk of his voice even more shaky and rough.

“Good,” Karl answers, leaning in for a kiss, this one slow and deliberate.  Chris sighs—just a bit—and something both loosens and tightens in Karl’s chest as he sighs back, then keeps on kissing until breathing’s a problem again.

Goddamn lungs, so fucking needy.

He backs off of more kissing only after his cock settles down and Chris' kisses back aren't demanding or needy but definitely impress upon Karl the need for a change of scenery.  Soon.

Chris gathers himself, yanking his pants up as he regains his feet.  Without looking at Karl, he makes his way to the chair where he’d abandoned his things, then zips up his hoodie and resettles his things.  He's taking his time, the stowing of objects in pockets a way for him to gather his thoughts.

When he meets Karl’s eyes again, his look is utterly wicked, and he closes the distance between them. 

One hand gripping Karl's cock, his other hand running curious fingers over Karl’s jaw, gentle and rough all at once, Chris leans in and whispers. 

His expression's intent, totally stern.  His eyes are as blue as every cliche ever committed to paper or lyric, and when he speaks, his voice is low-- husky.

“I think I’ve been pretty patient.”

Chris' tongue finds every crevice and crook in Karl’s mouth while his hand strokes, rubs and pulls at his dick and his balls until Karl’s a writhing heap of Kiwi goo holding on to Chris’ cruddy navy blue hoodie with two shaking hands. 

“You agree?”

Karl nods.  He thinks he says something without vowels.  It's sure as hell grateful and helpless-- and pretty damned desperate.  His cock's leaping in time with his pulse, which is beating harder and harder the longer and closer he stands next to Chris.

Chris smiles with so much delight that Karl could just fucking _melt_.  “Good.  We should really get going so I can take care of this.  Properly.”  And then he steps in and does that delightful mouth-cock plunge-stroke thing again before he stops and gives Karl’s cock a light pat-- then steps back and raising one warning eyebrow at Karl.  It's all he can do not to whimper.

“But if you ever call yourself old around me ever again, I won’t suck your brains out through your cock.  Got it?”

Karl agrees.  With alacrity.  That's a Chris kind of word.

Because he can, he kisses Chris all over again—while that may have been worth waiting for even if he hadn’t known what he’d been missing, it's not any longer.

Slowly, like a man with a hard-on and a man who's got another one growing, they make their way out of the small soundstage, nodding at the security guard sitting outside the stage, then break into a jog on their way to the visitor's lot-- closer than where Karl's got his car.  He watches the sway of Chris’ shoulders and legs, unconsciously marking time by his pace.

Is he jumping the gun to think about licking the vee of the line of Chris' back from shoulders to waist, once he wrestles the shirts off his body?

It’s been a while since paid attention to his surroundings and what lay before him.  No more—not with Chris to look forward to.  He picks up the pace and runs faster.

Chris’ smile blooms wide as Karl falls into step, matching his pace.  Their arms swing in tandem as they run.  Karl begins to count seconds forward in time.  He doesn't look back.  



End file.
